


S Novim Godom (Happy New Year)

by Creme13rulee



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Food, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creme13rulee/pseuds/Creme13rulee
Summary: The skating family celebrating New Years for Baph!In the original English I wrote it in. If you habla espanol, check out the translation by Piroco!





	S Novim Godom (Happy New Year)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Baph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baph/gifts).
  * Inspired by [S Novim Godom (Felíz Año Nuevo)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128532) by [Creme13rulee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creme13rulee/pseuds/Creme13rulee), [Piroco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piroco/pseuds/Piroco). 



“Good morning my love, my sunshine, my everything!” Viktor sings when Yuuri plops down at the dining room table still wrapped in a blanket.

“I was up three hours ago,” Yuri grunts, pulling the last of the groceries out of a paper bag and setting it down on the kitchen table.  
Yuuri only blinks.

“That's at least twenty kilos of mayo,” He says, his voice between awe and fear. His hair is a curly bed-head mess, and the mark from Makkachin’s paw resting on his cheek still hasn’t yet faded.

“Not quite. Just enough for the olivier salad and other… um… zakuski.” Viktor hums happily. He’s been in the best mood ever since Yakov called off practice early for the New Year. Yuuri had only moved to St. Petersburg the week prior, and jet lag combined with being immediately thrown into the Russian skating routine has stolen every second of free time from them. If they weren’t at the rink or at a government building, Yuuri was dead asleep from exhaustion. Whenever Viktor asked Yuuri how he felt, he was incessantly cheerful. It may have not been truthful, but Viktor hadn’t pushed it. He knew how hard moving into a new country was-- he had been through it not eight months before.

“Zaku..suki?” Yuuri drawls sleepily. Yuri makes a tsk sound, pretending to be disgusted at the gooey-happy expression on Viktor’s face. 

“Um… hors d'oeuvres?” Viktor kisses Yuuri’s cheek, because if there's anything he loves more than hearing Yuuri speak Russian, it’s when he speaks Russian with a Japanese accent.

“English!” Yuuri grunts. His patience is short in mornings. Viktor has discovered that Yuuri takes a good 15 minutes to become human in the mornings unless acted upon by a greater force. The ‘greater force’ so far has been: being late, meeting his Yubilenny rinkmates, and pre-competition anxiety. The longer Yuuri has lived in Russia, the more comfortable he has become and the less human in the mornings.

“Hm…. Bite afters?” Viktor hums, laughing at Yuuri’s angry growl in response. “Snacks! Something easy to eat with vodka.”

“You said I wouldn’t have to drink in front of Yakov,” Yuuri moans. Makkachin sits at his feet, wagging his tail patiently as Yuri and Viktor work around them. Viktor turns the samovar on to heat water before filling the french press for Yuuri. The french press is a new household item, bought the same day Yuuri balked at the cost of ordering espresso on the way to the rink. 

“Well, I guess I don’t think of vodka as drinking,” Viktor smiles, mixing in three sugar cubes and a generous pour of heavy cream. It breaks their diet plan, but so does most of what is on the menu tonight. New years is the one time Yakov relaxes his iron grip on his skaters. (Or at least, the one he pretends to have.)

“I’m looking forward to watching you embarrass yourselves,” Yuri smirks as he arranges the beets and potatoes next to the salted herring. Yuri may have not stopped Viktor from buying every ingredient for every traditional dish. He doubted Yuuri would like herring in a fur coat-- Yuri himself hated it, but it was time for retribution for all the weird stuff Yuuri fed him during his visit to Hasetsu.

“Ah,that’s for the mimosa salad Yurachka,” Viktor says after handing Yuuri his mug of coffee. Yuuri curls his hands over the mug, closing his eyes in bliss. Yuri moves the vegetables back to another pile.

“You know Mila and Georgi are bringing food too, right?” Yuri narrows his eyes, picking up a bag of bread.

“Are those bagels?” Yuuri mumbles.

“Sushki! Good with tea and jam,” Viktor winks.

“That’s not sushi,” Yuuri says, earning another gooey smile and kiss on the cheek from Viktor.

“I want to spoil you. I talked to Mila. She’s bringing the pickled vegetables and kissel,”

“She can’t kiss you,” Yuuri is back to growling.

“Kissel, my star. It’s… thick… fruit juice.”  
Yuuri wrinkles his nose, and for a split second Yuri is deathly afraid that Yuuri won’t like any of the food, and the long-standing Yakov New Years dinner will be ruined by Viktor’s dramatic crying. But Viktor just laughs and kisses Yuuri’s nose. “I made blini for you. Do you want it now or after your shower?”

Yuuri opts for after his shower. He emerges twenty minutes later with his hair damp and brushed, and dressed in a shirt slightly too long for him in the sleeves and wide in the shoulders. Viktor looks lovestruck again, no surprise there. Yuuri sits at the table eating, Makkachin standing with her paws in his lap while Yuri and Viktor start their work in the kitchen. It is slow work, mainly because Viktor gets distracted watching Yuuri roll up the small crepe-like pancakes in his fingers. He stares at Yuuri’s lips between sips of coffee. He even manages to nick himself while peeling a potato, his smile not fading one bit even with blood dripping down his hand.

That’s when Yuuri abandons his breakfast and joins them in the kitchen. Viktor’s apartment is big for St. Petersburg standards, but not quite three-people-in-the-kitchen big. He takes over peeling potatoes, bumping hips with Viktor and making him smile even more. Yuuri peels with expert hands earned from loving teaching from his mother and growing up in a tourist destination.  
“Here. Like this,” He gestures toward Yuuri, correcting his grip on the root vegetable.

“Viktor. Ne… Cat hand,” Yuuri stutters, folding Viktor’s fingers in when he starts chopping the vegetables to prepare them for boiling. Yuri’s usual grumpy comments fall away. The close quarters slowly turn from too cramped to just fine. Just like grandpa’s kitchen. 

They know each other well enough and have spent enough time at the rink together that they navigate around each other easily. It feels like family, with the added bonus of not having to explain all the skating terms and the daily grind to old men. Yuuri and Viktor understand perfectly-- their bare feet share the same marks and bandages as Yuri’s own. Viktor winces when he gets up from kneeling next to a cabinet, and Yuuri nurses his left hip after a hard fall from earlier in the week. They set the vegetables to boil. Viktor sets out of a plate of sushki and prepares a mug of tea.

“Please don’t.” Yuuri drawls with a private smile. Viktor smiles wider, pulling out the tea-jam jar with a dramatic flourish.  
“ Just because of that, I’m going to have extra. Yuri. do you want tea the BEST way?”

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. “You shouldn’t drink jam.” He whispers. 

“Hell yeah,” Yurio kicks back on the couch, his feet on the cushions.

“Feet. Off. We know you’re flexible, but that coat cost me 55 thousand rubles.” Vitkor squares his shoulder, sounding and standing like a father scolding his child.

“Yeah, yeah. Among other crap you waste your money on.” Yuri grumbles.

“I seem to remember ordering you a very expensive tiger print leather jacket off of Alibaba.”  
Viktor hums. Yuuri laughs, and the sound in music to his ears. Viktor smooths his hands over Yuuri’s as they cup a mug of tea. His fingers and knuckles are red from washing and peeling vegetables. It’s a familiar sight-- ever since their exchange in front of Sagrada Familia church, Yuuri has stopped wearing gloves to the rink. Viktor can’t scold Yuuri for it-- he does the same. But Hiroko sent Viktor home to Russia with two cases of Kairo chemical hand warmers. He was sure Yuuri brought more with him when he arrived in St. Petersburg a week later.

“Your lips are chapped,” Viktor comments, before pressing a kiss to said lips. Yuuri just smiles, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head.  
“I wonder why.”

Yuuri ends up doing most of the remaining work. They play a movie in the background, something very familiar and special to Yuri, judging by his angry yelling at the screen. It’s in russian, so Yuuri watches from the kitchen as he scoops out mayonnaise into several dishes. Viktor builds the herring in a fur coat like a cake-- fish, with a frosting of mayonnaise and generous layer of grated vegetables. The arranges the final layer of purple beetroot with concentration Yuuri hasn’t seen since Viktor started choreographing their stammi vicino duet.

“This is a lot of mayo.” Is Yuuri’s only comment when they finish. Yuri scoffs, as he is prone to do as an angsty teenager. 

“What do you even eat in Japan? I doubt it's as good.”

“Actually, it is really nice. We get to close the onsen for a week, and my mom makes osechi. Like.. a bento for a whole week.”

Yuri’s eyes sparkle. He remembers bento. They were almost as cool as the hot drink vending machines.

“Nishiki tamago… Like silver and gold eggs… black beans… Konbu..seaweed? Because yokorobu means happiness… there’s a lot of meanings to it.”

“What was your favorite?” Viktor sounds the tiniest bit sad, but he can’t help it. He was so excited about Yuuri moving to Russia and showing him around St. Petersburg that he has just realized he has completely neglected Yuuri’s home culture.

“Hmm… Ozoni? The bean soup with mochi. My mom made it for you guys in Hasetsu. He would eat it and watch Kohaku Uta Gassen on TV.”

“We watch the TV too!” Viktor says a little too loudly. “There’s always a message from the Kremlin before midnight, then fireworks!”

“I look forward to seeing it.” Yuuri smiles sweetly, and Viktor feels his heart squeeze. He could make a million mistakes and Yuuri would forgive him in an instant.

They have enough time to change into nicer, less mayo-scented clothing before driving to Yakov’s. Unlike Viktor, Yakov doesn’t live that close to the rink. He says it's so he can shop in peace without seeing a skater..but Viktor remembers when Yakov and Lilia bought the house the week before taking Viktor in on a permanent basis.

“Ah! Big Yuuri and Small Yuri!” Mila answers the door, already all smiles and flushed cheeks.  
“I’m not small Yuri! I’m the original!” Yuri barks. Yuuri doesn’t even bother pointing out that he was born first. Yuri will always consider himself the superior Yuri.

“Katzky’s the good Yuri! He’s the only Yuri that listens!” Yakov barks from inside the home, although it’s a bit softer than his normal barking.  
Yuuri blushes, bowing his head and nearly disappearing into his scarf and high collared wool coat. Mila kisses both Yuuri on the foreheads before lifting onto her toes to kiss Viktor’s cheek.  
“Gosha brought a new girl. She’s scared of Yakov.” Mila giggles before dancing back into the house. Yuuri trails behind, waiting for someone else to lead him the right direction. The house is all dark wood and silver. Viktor takes Yuuri hand and pulls him into the living room. Two of the walls are covered by hanging carpets. Where there isn’t carpets there are framed pictures and newspaper clippings. The most yellowed papers are only in cyrillic with blurry photos of a man with long hair. The more recent ones come in all languages-- a scattering of skaters, but the most international of the spreads are of Viktor.

“Oh! That was the feature from your gold in Nice!” Yuuri chatters excitedly, pulling from Viktor’s grip until only their fingertips touch. “That’s the one from Oregon! Not even the state library in Detroit had it on microfilm!”

It’s Viktor’s turn to flush pink, his lips pressed together in a sheepish smile. It’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t want Yuuri to stop.

“Here,” Yakov grunts, emerging from the kitchen and tapping a frame next to the antique looking television.

“Ah…. Yakov…” Viktors eyes sting with the threat of tears. It’s a picture of Yuuri and Viktor together, taken at Barcelona. Somehow the rings catch every way of light, and they shine even on cheaply printed newsprint. It’s professionally mounted and framed.  
Viktor decides to hug instead of cry, stepping the room and squeezing Yakov tightly in his arms. He’s grown softer over the years. Viktor can still remember when Yakov would get on the ice with him. It was something Mila never got to experience. Now Yakov coaches from the sidelines with more layers of clothing each year.

“Thank you…” Yuuri says softly, standing awkwardly by himself. Yakov appreciates it-- Viktor may be constantly touch-starved, but Yakov is perfectly fine. It’s Yuuri’s job to do that now.

“Come. Eat!” Yakov grunts. They move into the dining room. Yuri has already set out the dishes they prepared before, adding it to an impressing spread. There are pickled mushrooms, cucumbers and salted tomatoes. Red caviar spread on toasted slices of baguette and piles of familiar piroshky. The only thing Yuuri knows that is on his diet plan are the sliced raw vegetables, and even then, they are layered between slices of cheese.  
Viktor catches a soft sigh from Yuuri’s lips.  
“Hmm?” Viktor leans in, pressing his shoulder to Yuuri’s.

“Oh-- the mikan.. Um.. orange? We do that in Japan too.” Yuuri whispers, although there is no need to. It makes Viktor feel fiercely protective of him. It’s the first thing he picks off the table, pushing his thumb into the top and peeling it. Yuuri doesn’t realize it’s for him until Viktor pressed a section of orange to his bottom lip.

“Let me drink more before you do any more embarrassing stuff Vitya.” Yuuri mumbles. Viktor just smiles, taking the opportunity to push the citrus into Yuuri’s mouth.

It takes Yuuri five glasses of vodka to stop caring. He spends the rest of the night lounging against Viktor. He participates in conversation when he can. He’s drunk enough that he slips english in between, Viktor supplying the translation with ease. By 11:30, Yuuri is warm and soft in Viktor’s lap, his head tucked under Viktor’s. Even slightly drunk, Yuuri is polite. He eats the dressed herring and says ‘Vkusno’, a tragic expression on his face only for a split second.

They move back to the living room at 11:55 for the broadcast message. 

“Desyat! Devyat! Vosem! Sem! Sesht! Pyat! Chetyre! Tri!”  
They only count down to two before Yuuri stretches, his too-warm hands curling around Viktor’s jaw. He pulls him close, pressing soft lips to the corner of his mouth as Mila cheers at the change of midnight. Viktors hairs stand on end-- not from the new year, but from the pleasure of Yuuri hungrily kissing him. He turns into it, gasping when Yuuri bites at his bottom lip. He is blessedly back to simple kissing when Mila collides with them, wrapping her arms around them both in a bear hug. Georgi joins in next, pulling Yuri in with them. Yuri squawks, but joins the hug pile. Viktor is squished against Yuuri, close enough that he can feel his heart hammering through his chest.

“Ssss.. No god… on.” Yuuri whispers into Viktor’s skin. Mila screams a cheer into his ear, but the pain doesn’t matter. Even with the pain, this is the best New Year’s he’s ever had.


End file.
